Karen Rose - Count to Ten

Reed crouched next to the body and with his free hand pulled the sniffer from the bag he wore slung over one shoulder. Carefully he passed the instrument over the body, the sniffer's tone instantly switching to a high pitched whine.

He wasn't surprised. He glanced up at Ben. He could make it a trainable moment at least. "Ben?"

"High concentrations of hydrocarbons," Ben said tightly. "Indicates presence of accelerants."

"Good. Which suggests?"

"Which suggests the victim was doused in gasoline before being lit."

"Gasoline, or something." Reed focused, not allowing the stench to cloud his senses or the image of the dead young girl to tear at his heart. The first was nearly impossible, the second completely so. Still, he had a job to do. "The ME will be able to tell us exactly what was used on her. Good, Ben."

Ben cleared his throat. "Do you want me to call for the dog?"

"I did already. Larramie's on duty tonight. He should have Buddy here in twenty minutes." Reed straightened. "Foster, get the victim from the other side, will you?"

"Yep." Foster videotaped the scene from several more angles. "What else?"

Reed had moved to the wall. "Get a shot of this entire wail, then close-ups of all these marks." He leaned closer with a frown. "What the hell?"

"Narrow "V," Ben noted, steadier now. "The fire started down at the baseboard then moved up the wall fast." He looked over at Reed. "Really fast. Like with a fuse?"

Reed nodded. "Yeah." He ran the sniffer across the wall and once again they heard its high-pitched whine. "Accelerant up the wall. A chemical fuse." Unsettled, he studied the wall. "I don't think I've ever seen anything like that before."

"He used gas from the stove," Foster commented, turning the camera toward what was left of the appliances. He leaned closer, capturing the area between the stove and the wall. "The bolt's been removed. Had to have been deliberate."

"I thought so," Reed murmured, then brought his recorder back to his mouth. "The gas was flowing into the room, rising to the ceiling. The fire was ignited low to the floor, then traveled up this line of accelerant. We'll take samples here. But what about this?" He stepped back and took in the pock-marks that mottled the width of the wall.

"Something exploded," Ben said.

"You're right." Reed ran the sniffer along the wall. Short screeching bursts emerged, but no long whine as before. "It's like napalm, the way it sticks to the wall."

"Look." Ben was crouching near the door that connected the kitchen to the laundry room. "Plastic pieces." He looked up, puzzled. "They're blue "

Reed bent down to look. They did look blue. Quickly his eyes took in a several more pieces scattered across the floor and a picture formed in his mind. It was a photo in a book. An arson investigation manual, at least fifteen years old. "Plastic eggs."

Ben blinked. "Eggs?"

"I've seen this before. I bet if we can get enough pieces, the lab will be able to put them together like a plastic egg, like kids hunt at Easter. The arsonist fills it with accelerant, either solid or a viscous liquid like polyurethane, runs a fuse through a hole in one end. He lights the fuse and the pressure from the blast blows the egg apart, spewing the accelerant all over."

Ben looked impressed. "That explains the burn patterns."

"It does. It also goes to show if you do this job long enough, you'll see it all. Foster, get all the pieces and their location on tape, then close-up stills of everything in the room. I'm going to call in for a warrant to cover us on the origin and source samples, too. I don't want any lawyer telling us we can use the search samples for the arson, but not for the assault on that poor girl."

"Cover your ass," Foster muttered. "Damn lawyers."

"We'll get the plastic pieces after Larramie and the dog are finished. Maybe there's a piece big enough for Latent to get a print."

"You optimist, you," Foster said, still muttering.

"Just take the pictures. Also get pictures of the doors and first floor windows, especially the locks. I want to know how he got in here."

Foster moved his camera away from his face long enough to stare at Reed. "You know if that girl's a homicide, they're going to yank this case right out from under you "

He'd already thought of that. "I don't think so. I'll have to share, but there's plenty enough arson here for us to keep our hands in the pot. For now, we're here. We've got the ball. So move it into field goal territory, okay"?"

Foster lolled his eyes. He wasn't a sports fan. "Fine."

"Ben, there are two cars in the garage. The old ladies said the Doughertys had the Buick. Find out who owned the other one. And, Foster, at first light, I want you out there snapping pictures of the ground. With all this mud, he's bound to leave us something."

"Optimist," Foster muttered once again.

Sunday, November 26, 2:55 p.m.

His thoughts had cleared after a good night's sleep and now he could consider exactly what he had accomplished. And what he had not. He sat with his hands neatly folded on his desk, staring out the window, analyzing the events of the night. This was the time to determine what went well so that he could do those things again. Conversely, he needed to decide what had not gone well and whether to fix or eliminate those things. Or perhaps even add something new. He'd take it point by point. Keeping it in order. It was the best way.

The first point was the explosion. His mouth curved. That had gone very well, art and science all rolled into one. His little firebomb worked perfectly, the design easy to implement. Not a single moving part. Elegant in its simplicity.

And very successful. He grimaced a little as he tested his sore knee. Maybe a little too successful, he thought, remembering the force of the blast. It had knocked him off his feet, throwing him to his hands and knees as he'd run down the Doughertys' front walk. He guessed he'd cut that fuse a little too close. He'd wanted ten seconds to get out of the house and down to the street. Mentally he counted it out. It had been more like seven seconds. He needed ten. Ten was very important.

The next time, he'd cut the fuse a little longer.

The first egg he'd put in the kitchen worked beautifully, just like his prototype. The second egg, the one he'd put on the Doughertys' bed… He'd intended to kill the old man and his wife, then burn them in their own bed. When he'd discovered they weren't there, the second bomb became symbolic, but ultimately not a viable part of his plan.

He'd realized as he'd stood ready to light its fuse that by the time he ran downstairs and lit the fuse for the kitchen egg that the upstairs one would already have blown. That blast might have set off the gas before he was out of the house, trapping him inside. So he'd left it there, hoping it would blow when the fire spread. Judging from the way the fire had burned through the roof of the house, he believed that had happened. But had it not, the police may have found it and learned more than he wanted them to.

So even though the concept of two bombs was sweet, lighting them simultaneously was impractical, the risk too great. From now on, he'd stick with one. Everything else about the explosion itself had been a textbook success. Everything had gone just as he'd planned. Well, not entirely.

Which brought him to the second point. The girl. His smile widened to a grin, wicked and… powerful. Just thinking about her made his body tighten.

When she begged, when she tried to fight, something inside him had snapped and he'd used her. Completely. Savagely. Until she lay on the floor quivering, unable to say a word. That's the way it should be. The way they all should be. Quiet . If not voluntarily, then by force. His grin faded. But he'd used her without a condom, which was incredibly stupid. He hadn't considered it then, he'd been too wrapped up in the moment. Once again, he'd been lucky. The fire would take care of any evidence. At least he'd had the presence of mind to douse her with gasoline before he ran. She'd be destroyed, along with anything of his own he'd left behind when he'd run.